This is the aftermath of a fine romance. Sometimes I think as novelists we have to indulge in heartbreak to understand how something becomes so very perfect, and wonderful. The ancient Greeks called it tragedy. That aspect of life that ripped out the soul, and replaced it with bitterness, pain, and a reckless desire to hurt others. We are all capable of becoming a victim of such nihilistic thoughts, and machinations. The proof is in what you choose to do about it.
The following is not crafted as a book or novel should be. Instead it is raw, and rushed. It is hurried, and frenzied. This work is littered with bad punctuation, improper phrasing, and words that don't really exist. It then becomes what it should accurately resemble. Life.
This is Perilous Flight
Always w/love,
Sue
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